


Dreamcatcher

by spnredemption



Series: Redemption Road [27]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-05
Updated: 2012-04-05
Packaged: 2017-11-12 00:03:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/484382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spnredemption/pseuds/spnredemption
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Dean closes his eyes, fighting back the whimpers that threaten to claw their way out of his throat. This is a duty, he knows, one that he deserves. This is who he chose to be, he thinks, and it's only when he hears Alastair's laugh that he realizes he spoke aloud.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dreamcatcher

**Author's Note:**

> **Masterpost:** **[Supernatural: Redemption Road](http://spn-redemption.livejournal.com/1552.html)** (for full series info, warnings, and disclaimer)  
>  **Authors** [](http://daymarket.livejournal.com/profile)[**daymarket**](http://daymarket.livejournal.com/)  
>  **Characters/Pairing:** Dean/Castiel, Sam, OC and canon characters  
>  **Rating:** R  
>  **Word Count:** ~15,800  
>  **Warnings:** language, mild violence, some disturbing imagery, references to hell, references to elements that are dub/non-con in nature (Dean/Alastair non-explicit)  
>  **Betas:** [](http://nyoka.livejournal.com/profile)[**nyoka**](http://nyoka.livejournal.com/) and [](http://zatnikatel.livejournal.com/profile)[**zatnikatel**](http://zatnikatel.livejournal.com/)  
>  **Art:** Chapter banner by [](http://smallworld-inc.livejournal.com/profile)[**smallworld_inc**](http://smallworld-inc.livejournal.com/) ; digital paintings by [](http://smallworld-inc.livejournal.com/profile)[**smallworld_inc**](http://smallworld-inc.livejournal.com/), which you can also find **[here](http://spn-redemption.livejournal.com/29200.html)** (they contain spoilers for the episode).

  


  


_0\. Dean_

He's cold.

It's odd. He can't ever remember a time when he _wasn't_ cold, yet at the same time his skin itches with faint impressions of warmth. Or maybe those are just the imprints left behind by Alastair's hands, the times when his Dad holds him in his arms and runs his fingers over his heart, gently stroking the slick, trembling surface. It's a peculiar feeling. Dean isn't quite sure whether or not he'd call it good, but then again, who is he to say anything these days?

Except that he does, he thinks faintly. Because he's the prince, and he holds their lives in his hands. There's a child in front of him, a familiar one who at the same time seems unapproachably alien. The warm blush in its cheeks and the rosiness of its lips are a stark contrast against the icy walls of the court, and for a moment Dean wants to lean forward, press his hands against its face, and warm it up. He's done that before, he remembers, and for another moment he can remember that same fleeting warmth again.

_It hasn't always been like this_.

A hand rests firmly on his shoulder, hard and unyielding. "My prince," Alastair says quietly into his ear. Dean flinches despite himself, and he can feel the hand tighten its grip. He looks up at Alastair; at the wise, knowing eyes that somehow ground and destabilize him all at once. As if Alastair knows what Dean's thinking – which he does – he smiles, pressing a light finger against Dean's chin. Dean leans forward involuntarily towards the touch, unsure of what the other man wants from him. The finger stops him – so close – and then Alastair says, "The court awaits your judgment, my prince."

Alastair's hands leave him, and Dean drops back against his throne, his innards twisting at the loss of touch. He braces one hand against his chin in an attempt to reclaim the heat, but his hands are cold, icy, frozen in a way that the child in front of him would surely shrink away from. Dean drops his eyes to look at it, huddled in front of the throne of ice. He's seen it before, he knows, and he will see it again. "Come here," he says, his voice cracking slightly.

The child raises its trembling head and comes towards him. There's fear in its eyes, but madly enough, it lifts a hand and trustingly allows him to take it. He can feel its hand in his, a burning point of warmth, and for a moment he thinks that perhaps this time, things can be different.

Alastair shifts behind him, and Dean feels an involuntary shiver run down his spine. It's not quite a warning, but it's enough. Dean closes his hand around the child's own hand and watches as its eyes widen fractionally in pain, the mouth opening to utter a cry. Quickly, he places his other hand over its mouth to muffle the cry. "Shh," he murmurs, although he's not sure who he's trying to reassure. "I'll take care of you."

He's learned a lot of things from Alastair. This, at least, he can pass on.

He rises. He can feel the court rustle around him; he's tied into it, and sometimes he wonders vaguely if it even exists if he isn't there. As he leaves the room with the child in tow, Alastair is behind him, steady as a shadow and just as close. Dean wonders for a moment if the child knows what's going to happen to it, and he quickly banishes that thought from his mind. They're like toys, dispensable and discardable, not meant to be thought of.

Even if they _do_ squirm rather more than a real doll does. It's not pleasant, he knows. It's not _supposed_ to be pleasant. The children are here as a penance, but whether its theirs or Dean's, he has no idea. It probably isn't his, he thinks, because he's not the one who suffers. The fiery, unrelenting heart of the furnace is something that probably wouldn't even burn him, cold as he is.

The child shrieks, a high-pitched wail of despair. The flames of the furnace are reflected in its eyes, and for a moment Dean feels the slightest echo of unease tug at the gaping hole in his chest. This isn't right, he thinks, but he's not sure how he came to that particular conclusion. After all, Alastair has never been anything but supportive of him, and the court will obey its prince to the death. "It's okay," he says awkwardly, brushing a hand along its brow and pushing the sweat-soaked hair back. "This is for your own good."

He looks up at Alastair as the last sentence leaves his lips, searching for reassurance. Alastair smiles at him and then down at the child, who wails again and tries to pull away from the gaping maw of the furnace. "You're very good," he says, and Dean feels a faint flicker of jealousy as Alastair curls his fingers briefly through the child's hair.

Tiny fingers clasp his hands, and Dean looks down in vague surprise. "Please," the child says in a high, thin voice. Dean studies its face, watching carefully as liquid wells up in the corners of its eyes. It's in distress, he realizes, and for a moment he feels an inexplicable urge to free it from its chains and set it free. He can imagine it spreading wings and flying away, although he's not sure where that idea comes from—

"Dean."

Dean jumps at the sound of his father's voice. Alastair knows. He _always_ knows. "I'm sorry," Dean says, his shoulders hunching instinctively. Something inside his stomach curls at the disappointment he knows that he is; the disappointment that Alastair always has in him.

"Finish the work."

The flames work slowly, licking the child with leisurely, almost loving caresses. Dean can see its mouth open and close, but he can't hear anything over the sounds of Alastair's steady breath in his ear.

  


It boils down to this:

This is the chest. It's made out of finely carved ice that will never melt in any fire; stone has shattered before it and steel has faltered. There is a lock, one that only Alastair can open. Dean's not sure how Alastair does it. He has vague memories of fighting Alastair once in a vain struggle to open the chest, but those memories have long since crumbled into dust just like all the children of the court.

He knows that there was a time when the children were special, when in fact there was just _one_ child, the one who began it all. That child had a name, something small and familiar and beautiful, something that he held close and loved with all his heart. And then one day, that child was going to die. Rather than let that happen, Dean stepped forth and gave his heart to save him.

Or did he? He can't remember. Maybe it's always been this way. Maybe he never deserved his heart to begin with.

He can feel it sometimes when it beats from within the chest, although that may very well just be his imagination. He presses a hand against the skin over the place where his heart should be and thinks that he can feel the blood rushing through his veins, warm and hot and infinitely alive. The illusion is always ruined, though, by the cold touch of skin against skin.

In the room, Dean watches as Alastair unlocks the chest and reaches inside for his heart. His father is capable of infinite gentleness and care, cradling Dean's heart like a lover, never allowing it to come to harm. As Alastair runs light, almost playful fingers over the trembling surface, prickles spread throughout Dean's entire body, buzzing and crackling just under his skin. Dean throws his head back and clenches his fingers in the sheets of the bed, trying not to breathe. It's a terrible feeling, ecstatic and pleasurable, hovering just at the edges of pain. Alastair's touch burns; not enough to be painful. But only just.

"I'm sorry," Dean gasps out, fighting for coherent thought and breath. "Dad, I'm sorry, I shouldn't have—"

"I know," Alastair says softly, and Dean is painfully aware of the other man's gaze on him, judging and implacable. "But do you, Dean? Sometimes I wonder. This is what we must do. This is what we will do, what we were made to do."

Dean closes his eyes, fighting back the whimpers that threaten to claw their way out of his throat. This is a duty, he knows, one that he deserves. This is who he chose to be, he thinks, and it's only when he hears Alastair's laugh that he realizes that he spoke aloud. He can feel his father's presence, oppressively close, but more than anything else he can feel his heart as it beats frantically in Alastair's hands. As Alastair's fingers twitch, Dean feels the jolts sharpen and tip over into pain, and he can't stop the strangled scream from coming out.

"Do you think you deserve a reward, Dean?" Alastair says. His voice is quiet, almost drowned out by the thumping of Dean's heart. "After your poor showing today, I'm inclined to say no. What do you think you deserve instead? A punishment?"

Yes. _Yesyesyes_. There's only one answer, and there will only ever be one answer. Dean draws in a deep, gasping breath of air, and the word works its way out of him in short, choked moans. He can feel it the instant that Alastair tightens his grip on his heart, squeezing as if he wants to crush it in his hands. Dean thrashes helplessly, no longer in control of his own body. It feels like every muscle is seizing up, curling helplessly into itself in an effort to escape; it feels like death. _This is what you chose to be_.

He's aware of wetness on his cheeks, of – of _tears_ , the word coalescing in his mind with a painful finality. "Please," he whispers. Dean claws at the sheets, fighting helplessly, but not against Alastair, never against his father. " _Please_ —"

He can feel it the instant that Alastair releases his heart. Dean sags against the bed, a soft, pathetic keen escaping involuntarily from his lips. He doesn't deserve this, this reprieve, but he's pathetically grateful nonetheless. "Dean," he hears, and then cool fingers bring his chin up. Dean opens his eyes and sees Alastair, shadowed and blurry and utterly inescapable. "You're not unforgivable."

"No," Dean whispers, unable to summon the strength for anything more. "Dad—"

He doesn't know what he's pleading for, but Alastair does. Alastair _always_ knows. Alastair sets his heart back into the chest, and Dean feels an aching sense of loss, even more hollow than usual, as his heart disappears from view. The lid shuts and the lock clicks back into place, and Dean has to force himself to keep his eyes on Alastair. "Be at peace," Alastair tells him gently, both hands coming up to frame his face. "You're a good boy, Dean."

Dean clings to the voice as it slides over him, sending long, oily tendrils of calm through his body. He can feel his father place a light, chaste kiss on his forehead, and he allows himself to sink further into the cloying darkness.

  


_1\. Castiel_

Dean looks dead.

There's no other way to describe it, and Castiel's heart clenches painfully at the sight of Dean's slack, still face. He presses a hand against Dean's chest, more to reassure himself that Dean is still breathing than anything else. "He's dreaming," he says softly, trying to dampen the sudden dread threatening to overwhelm him. They've dealt with nightmares before, but this is different.

"That's a good thing, isn't it?" Sam asks, and the look on his face is one of confusion, hope, and terror all at once. "Because he'll wake up. So that's a good thing, right?"

"The spirit went _into_ him," Castiel says, trying hard to keep his own panic down. "I doubt there's anything normal about this particular scenario." He closes his eyes and inhales deeply. Really, he _should_ have expected all of this. Since when have their lives been anything resembling simple or lucky? Even a simple salt-'n'-burn of all things, one of those back-to-basics jobs, inevitably goes wrong. With all that's been happening across the globe, Castiel should have been better prepared for something like this. For spirits to be more than simple spirits. "The spirit had a grudge to impart, and Dean…" he trails off.

Sam blows out a harsh breath. "You think he's having a flashback?" he asks, and Castiel can tell that he's just barely keeping himself calm. "He had one a while back. If he's trapped in a dream, then maybe the same thing is happening again."

"It's a dream," Castiel says grimly. "Anything is possible."

"But you have to wake up at the end," Sam persists. "Otherwise it's not a dream, it's a – it's a coma, isn't it? People don't dream in comas." He pauses and then adds uncertainly, "Do they?"

"Even if they don't normally," Castiel says wearily, "I can assure you that this is anything but ordinary." He presses a hand against Dean's forehead and forces down his own terror. He knows that Dean has been having flashbacks since New Jersey, and it's irrational to deny it all. Some tiny part of him had hoped to avoid this, though, futile as that might have been. "The spirit forced our hand," he murmurs more to himself than Sam, but Sam lets out an unhappy huff at the words.

"There wasn't much hope of stopping it to begin with, was there? We've always had plenty of nightmare fodder," Sam says, his voice half-laugh, half-cry. "As if Hell weren't enough…"

Castiel looks down at Dean's face and traces the frown lines. Those lines are new since he rebuilt Dean's body, and there's a story behind each and every one. "We'll get him back," he says shortly, letting the words buttress his belief. It's a promise, one that he knows how to start but has no idea how it will turn out.

Sam looks at him for a moment before apparently tracing the same path Castiel's thoughts are taking. "Dreamroot!" he says, straightening. "I bet Bobby will know where we can get some. We can go into the dream and—"

"How long would that take?" Castiel interrupts. Perhaps not exactly the same path, he thinks ruefully.

"I don't know – a couple hours?" Sam says.

"Too long," Castiel says. He closes his eyes, assessing what strength he has. It's not without a certain sense of fatalism that he says, "I'm going in." He's not really sure if he's strong enough, but what choice does he have?

"Going where?" Sam demands, managing to look panicked and irritated all at once. As Castiel gives him a slightly exasperated look, Sam splutters and points at Dean. "Into his _head_?"

"Dreamwalking is a skill all angels have," Castiel says evenly. He brushes Dean's hair away from his forehead, hating the faint coolness of Dean's skin. Dean should be warm even while dreaming, not edging slowly towards the coolness of a corpse. This is something new, and new is never good when it comes to their tumultuous lives.

A hand grips his arm, and Castiel follows it to look up at Sam's determined face. "Take me," Sam says, his jaw set. "You'll need backup if Dean's having a Hell dream." He smiles a little self-deprecatingly and adds, "I know I've got my own demons, but I can help you find him."

Castiel stares down at Sam's hand for a moment and does a quick mental calculation of his own capabilities. The answer is depressingly grim, and he shakes his head in despair. It can't be done, not in his current depleted state, and for a moment he hates his own fragility more than anything else. "I can't take you dreamwalking," he says somberly. He takes a breath and then adds in a rush, "I don't even know if I can take myself."

"Your mojo's all gone?" Sam asks quietly.

Castiel shrugs and doesn't answer. He has enough. He _has_ to have enough. "Keep him alive," he orders. "His body can still die, and if that happens…" He closes his eyes. "I may not have the strength to resurrect him. Not again."

There's a moment of hesitation from Sam, and he can sense the agonized paralysis running through the other man's body. Finally, Sam loosens his grip on Castiel's arm, but he doesn't remove his hand. "How long?" Sam asks, and his voice cracks slightly on the last word.

Castiel opens his eyes and looks down. He knows Dean's body and his mind – or the conscious part at least. This is no ordinary dream, though, and he can still remember the way Dean had convulsed when the spirit had entered him. He wonders if it's actually _in_ Dean's mind, or if it's just cursed him, or maybe it's wiped his mind completely, or maybe Castiel is no longer strong enough to reach him… "I don't know," he breathes out, and he doesn't dare to look at Sam's face.

Castiel takes a deep breath, forcing himself to chase the dark thoughts away. He needs to be calm for this; dreamwalking is an angelic skill, and in some ways he needs to think like an angel. The thought is oddly foreign, and for a moment Castiel feels a tremor run through him at the realization of all the ways he has changed, perhaps irrevocably.

_No. You can do this_.

He pushes away his uncertainties and pushes against Dean's mind. "Keep him alive," he murmurs absently to Sam. "His physical body will still need sustenance while I'm gone, and—" He breaks off, frowning. There's something blocking his way, intangible but still stubbornly pushing him back. He's never quite encountered anything like it before: even when Dean wasn't actively inviting him into his mind before, it never took more than a small nudge to enter. Castiel narrows the focus of his thoughts and pushes through determinedly until the barrier shatters, pattering around him like a thousand tiny shards of—

—ice.

Castiel grunts as they rain down around his head, wincing as they cut into his wings – his _wings_? He turns his head slightly to ascertain that they are indeed present, and he frowns slightly in confusion. That's not supposed to happen, he thinks, dazed. He stares at them for a moment as he wills them to disappear, but they remain stubbornly corporeal. Fanning them out gingerly, he can feel the weight of them in a way he's never quite thought about before, feel the snow melting on them, tiny pinpricks that are just faint enough to be more annoying than painful. He breathes out and watches his breath coalesce in front of him into a puff of mist, and for a moment he just stares at it dumbly, uncertain of the sight. Cold, he thinks. "Snow," he says out loud.

Well. At least he can rule Hell out, he thinks wryly.

He kneels down and picks up one of the shards in his hand. There's a bright flash of pain, and then blood lines the edges of a cut on his finger from where the glinting edges sliced him. Castiel winces but doesn't let go, watching with a numb fascination as his blood spreads across the smooth, clear surface of the shard. Interesting.

He looks up, studying the sight before him. He's no stranger to the fluid world of dreams, even if he can't remember any of his own. And yet each time he enters another human's dream, the seemingly limitless bounds of human imagination always leave him a bit at a loss. There's a castle looming before him, although he could have sworn that earlier no such thing was there. The castle is blindingly bright and reflects the light with a relentless intensity that makes him wince.

Castiel takes a step towards it and ducks his head as the glare grows brighter. It doesn't want him here. There's something here, something that Dean has built to hide in, or perhaps something else is blocking him from getting to it. From what, he's not sure, and he definitely doesn't know for what reason. "We don't have to do this," Castiel says softly to the dreamworld as he takes another step forward. "Dean, listen to me…"

A harsh wind blows up around him, spitting snow into Castiel's face. He should be protected from the cold to some extent, but this world, it seems, has turned the rules inside out. "Dean!" he shouts into the howling wind. He can barely hear his own voice.

The wind jerks at his clothes as if it's trying to push him back out of spite. Castiel grits his teeth and lowers his head, determinedly pushing not just against the wind, but against the fabric of this world.. "We need you to wake up," he yells, knowing that he can be heard. "I'm worried for you. And Sam's worried for you. Please, Dean…"

He can't even hear his own voice now over the howling of the wind. "It's not supposed to be this cold!" he snarls out of sheer frustration. It's childish and thoroughly petty, but Castiel knows that dream or not, he's going to die if this keeps up. What's going on in Dean's mind? "Go back to where you came from," Castiel growls vindictively, aiming his words at whatever's torturing Dean's mind. "He's not yours, he's—" Castiel takes a deep breath and flinches as the wind sears his throat and nose.

"— _mine_."

Sudden quiet.

Castiel coughs uncontrollably for a moment before catching his breath. Absently rubbing his throat, he takes a moment to flex his wings before looking around. Between one step and the next, he's moved to standing in the middle of an icy hallway. This place is even colder than the outside, but at least the wind and light have ceased. None of the people standing on either side of the hall seem to notice his entrance or his outburst. Castiel edges along the wall, his heart pounding dully in his ears. The silence is ringingly loud after the howling wind, and it's also extremely unnerving. The humans glint dully in the light, and Castiel's eyes narrow. They're statues, statues made of ice. The amount of detail carved into them is truly breathtaking; he can see every individual stitch and jewel and even the fine lines of their hair. And yet, as he turns to examine them further, he sees that their faces are blank. A smooth, featureless plane.

He reaches out and touches a statue lightly. It's cold to his touch, but it doesn't move or otherwise react. Castiel tucks his hands back into the pockets of his jacket and considers the scene for a moment. He knows that Dean is somewhere in here, and that this world is created from his mind – or it should be, although with the spirit's grudge in the mix, and with all that's been happening to them, who's to say that anything belongs to Dean alone? He clings to that thought as he walks through the hall, observing the unnatural stillness with growing dismay. _Dean's mind is a very cold, desolate place_.

The thought stings deeper than it should, and Castiel has to take a moment to shake himself out of the growing pessimism. He can sort out the reasons later if he finds Dean – or rather, _when_ he finds Dean, he corrects himself. Castiel squares his shoulders and walks through the hall of statues, determined not to be intimidated. He moves through an open doorway, trying to find some sign of life in the place. Though there is no wind or glare to stop him here, it still seems like the halls are actively fighting to keep him away. He emerges into a featureless, icy corridor with several doorways, steps through one, and finds himself back in the same place. The corridors are a winding, twisting maze with no discernible way to tell the difference between one and the other. Each time he turns a corner, the same coldly imposing hallway appears.

Something _really_ doesn't want him here.

This isn't working. Castiel leans against the wall and tries to curb the growing tide of frustration within him. He's never going to get anywhere by just _walking_. Perhaps he's never even moved within the dreamspace; he's no closer to finding Dean than before. But at the same time, he's certain that Dean is here. This is still the shelter Dean has created for himself, after all, and it wouldn't be so stubbornly trying to keep him away if there was nothing to hide. Castiel tries to batten down the flood of doubt, but the questions treacherously bleed into his mind anyway – what if _Dean_ doesn't want him here? What if he's hiding here because he doesn't want to be rescued, or at least rescued by _Castiel_?

Castiel clenches his fists. No, he thinks, shoving the thoughts out of his mind. He thinks instead of Dean's hands on his, drawing him close, of their shared body heat, of Dean's kisses, and Dean's soft, deep laugh against his ear. They've had nightmares, both of them, too many to count, and Castiel will be damned if he leaves Dean to fight this one out alone. This is what he's here for. Dean knows it, he knows it. Dean would not intentionally keep him out.

"So," Castiel breathes, exhaling plumes of mist. He feels somewhat ridiculous speaking out loud to the flat walls of ice, but he's not really alone, is he? He's got a listener; this world wouldn't exist if Dean were dead. "And for some reason, you don't want me here, do you?"

He closes his eyes and flings out all his senses, trying to grasp ahold of the rules in this strange world. Silence greets his initial query, but Castiel presses harder. He begins to walk blindly, his hands jammed firmly into the pockets of his jacket to protect against the temptation to brace himself. _Dean_ , he thinks, and feels a small flush of triumph as there is a stir somewhere deep within the dreamworld. He braces himself for impact should he bump into a wall, but surprisingly (or perhaps not), nothing comes as the presence grows stronger and stronger until it's _right there_. He opens his eyes.

_Dean_.

Dean stares at him blankly, and Castiel's heart jumps into his throat as he stares back. Dean looks pale. It seems like he's one step away from becoming a statue of ice himself, and only the faint heaving of his chest reassures Castiel otherwise. Castiel's eyes flicker around the room, searching for the malignant presence. He definitely felt it, so where is it? His eyes flash to Dean, searching the other man carefully. Something's wrong, he thinks, and then almost laughs at his absurdity. _No shit, Sherlock_ , as Dean would say. _Everything_ about this is wrong.

Castiel reaches out and touches Dean with a tentative hand. He feels cold to the touch, and Castiel wonders chillingly if this is a premonition of things to come. Reaching out with his other senses, he frowns slightly. This is Dean, but at the same time, it's not. It's as if a hole has been carved from his chest, leaving a gaping wound that has never healed; perhaps it's scabbed over with time, but the infection festers underneath. It's an oddly familiar sensation, and Castiel shakes his head, trying hard to place it.

He takes a step forward, and the movement is swift and without warning. In a single fluid motion, Dean shifts, backing up against a table. Emotion flits across his face, quick and elusive, before being replaced by a flat, expressionless façade. No. "Dean," Castiel says gently, trying not to spook him further. He forces his wings to lay flat, trying to appear as non-threatening as possible. "Are you all right?"

Dean looks at him. "You're—" he begins, before breaking off abruptly. His voice has a strange, flat quality to it. "You aren't welcome here, guard."

Guard. Castiel looks again, this time picking out the details of Dean's clothing, of the fine embroidery, of the rich, plush fabric that stands out starkly against the icy white of everything else. Is Dean the master of this land? That would make sense, but it's a grossly distorted truth, as something seems to be missing from him. Castiel takes another step forward. Dean hunches his shoulders slightly, and Castiel cocks his head slightly in confusion. Dean is taking on a defensive position, which is unusual for the supposed ruler of whatever kingdom this is. "You shouldn't be here," Dean repeats, but his voice is quieter this time and maybe – just maybe – more human.

"Sam's waiting for you," Castiel tries. Dean shows no sign of recognition of the name, but Castiel persists, trying to reach the essence of whoever or whatever remains. "You're dreaming, Dean, and you need to wake up."

"This is mine," Dean says, but he suddenly sounds much more uncertain.

"It is," Castiel allows, "but it's not just yours. Or it's not completely yours." He looks around involuntarily, the feathers on his wings prickling with tension. The room appears to be empty other than him and Dean, but in this dreamworld, who knows what rules govern this place. "There's someone here interfering with your dream," he tries.

"It's what I'm supposed to do," Dean says, but Castiel gets the feeling that he's addressing some other issue. Dean's gaze focuses on him, and Castiel has to force himself to stare firmly back into the frigid, crystal eyes, so unlike Dean's welcome green. "That's what he's always told me."

"He?" Castiel echoes, latching onto the word. "Who's _he_ , Dean?" The spirit? He knows that the spirit's original gender was male, but they burned the spirit's body, didn't they? It should be at rest, but nothing about the case went as expected. Could this be a sign that the problems here are caused by the spirit's actual and continued presence? Castiel ponders the possibility, wondering if he grossly miscalculated the situation.

Dean makes no move to reply though, and his eyes seem to be staring through Castiel rather than at him. There's a long, frozen silence, and Castiel desperately wants to reach out and grab Dean, but at the same time he somehow knows that such a move would not be allowed. Finally, Dean says in that same implacable tone, "Who are you?" Unspoken: why are you still here?

Castiel inhales slowly and tells himself not to be surprised. This is a dream; this is like no dream he's ever shared with Dean before. Whenever they've shared dreams, it's always been warm, intimate, nothing like this frozen palace of ice. Even when Castiel was souled-up, the nightmares came from the souls, not from his and Dean's connection. What should Castiel say to Dean now? Once, it was easy. _I'm an angel of the Lord_. But those days are past, and now there are far too many answers to that question – _I'm a fallen angel. I'm your friend. I opened Purgatory. I love you, Dean_.

Castiel swallows before speaking, hesitant to trust his voice. He settles for, "I'm here to save you." This is hardly the place for human outpourings of devotion, he thinks, and tucks the other words away for a better time. He lays a hand on Dean's hand and winces at the icy coldness of his skin. Now that he's actually touching Dean for longer than a moment, the tangible loss is more acute than ever. "What happened?" he prods, not really expecting an answer.

Dean stares at him dumbly for a moment, and Castiel can feel the silence settle around them, thick and oppressive. Holding a staring contest with Dean seems to be somewhat pointless, and Castiel tries his best to push away the growing despair by distracting himself. He pushes at Dean, trying to get him to move, but it's eerily too close to moving a statue of ice. Dean doesn't resist him, exactly, but nor does he move of his own will.

With a sigh, Castiel sidesteps Dean, studying the rest of the room. There are tapestries decorating the walls, their patterns too faint to be clearly seen. He steps closer to one, reaching out a hand to touch the iced-over threads.

His heart jumps wildly at the sudden warmth. Oh. _Oh_.

There are soft, tentative hands on his feathers. Castiel turns to look at Dean, who's stroking a trembling hand down the edge of Castiel's wing. Oh… _kay_. Castiel studies Dean's face, trying to calm his pounding heart. Dean's expression is softer, stranger, both focused and dazed all at once, and the contradiction sends a tight curl through Castiel's stomach. He can feel the cold of Dean's hand and while it's not pleasant, it's not totally unpleasant, either. Just…odd. Like something's missing.

He shakes his head, trying to turn his attention back to the tapestry, but – well, he's distracted. Dean is touching his _wings_ , and even if it's not completely Dean – even if this world is nothing but a manifestation of Dean's mind – Castiel clenches his fingers into fists, trying to catch his breath. "Dean," he says tightly, "you need to stop."

And Dean stops.

And part of the reason, perhaps, is that they're not alone anymore.

With what he has left of his angelic strength, Castiel pushes Dean behind him and stands to face the intruder in a single fluid move, wings flared out to hide Dean from view. The intruder is a tall, wiry man, and he looks more vividly alive than anything else in this world with the tan of his skin and the coal blackness of his eyes. " _Alastair_ ," Castiel breathes, recognition hitting him all at once.

"Aren't you a pleasant surprise," Alastair grins, teeth bared. "Hello there, little angel."

For a moment, Castiel freezes in surprise, his mind struggling to process the sudden turn of events. Out with the spirit theory, he thinks, and back with the nightmare one – Alastair's here, strong and alive, prowling around Dean's mind. Dean has suffered Hell flashbacks many times before, and the nightmares have returned with a vengeance of late given Castiel's and Sam's own experiences acting as a trigger to Dean's memories. Even so, this is not what Castiel had been expecting. Dread trickles down Castiel's spine as he tries to think of a way out. He's fought Alastair and failed before, and now he's down to the dregs of his power, barely even an angel anymore. At the same time, though, this Alastair isn't really a demon, is he? He's Dean's nightmare, and theoretically, Dean should have control over him... "Dean," he says urgently, not looking away from the demon. "You have to wake up. Alastair is dead, remember? I saved you from him in Hell, and Sam killed him. He can't hurt you anymore."

Alastair's grin widens, and then he says, "Isn't that a rude way to start off, little angel?" Something glints in his hand: it's a knife, blade curved and wickedly sharp. "Real or not real, dream or not dream. Do you think you can die in a dream, little angel? Do you think you can really kill _me_?"

"Dean," Castiel says, louder. " _Alastair is not real_. Sam's waiting for you. _I'm_ waiting for you." He knows he sounds desperate, hears how his voice cracks a little bit on that word. "You're not the same person I dragged out of the Pit."

"Are you so sure, little angel?" Alastair says. "He's mine. He's always been mine. I just let you borrow him for a little while, that's all." He snaps his fingers, and Castiel stumbles as Dean pushes past him, moving towards Alastair. Alastair places a hand on Dean's shoulder, and Dean allows the touch, his eyelids fluttering rapidly as he sags limply into Alastair's hold. Alastair leans down and claims Dean's mouth in an undoubtedly brutal, punishing kiss. Dean's hand moves slightly, but he doesn't otherwise react. Castiel feels himself freeze for a moment, all the air rushing from his lungs. The hand with the knife wraps around Dean's neck, placing the blade just under Dean's jaw.

A soft, pained noise shakes Castiel out of his lethargy, shocking him down to his very core. "Get away from him," he snarls, sudden rage flooding him. Dream or not, Alastair is the embodiment of a burden that Dean has evidently carried for a while now, and it's about time the nightmare stopped. Alastair needs to be purged from Dean's mind as readily as he was purged from the physical world.

Castiel's not as fast or strong as he was once was, but he's learned some new tricks since then. He wraps his hand around Alastair's and jerks it away, spinning the demon around to face him. Alastair laughs at him, breath hot and rank. Castiel feels a shudder of revulsion run down his spine. "You want to play, little angel?" Alastair whispers. "Try this—"

Castiel hears the whistle of the blade as it cuts through the air and ducks instinctively, but not enough to stop a bright flare of pain from bursting across his wings. He casts a frenzied look over his shoulder, looking at the single line of grotesquely red blood painted across the feathers. "You're not real," Castiel says through clenched teeth. "You are a figment of Dean's traumatized mind." He wills his sword to appear in his hand but is only vaguely surprised when it doesn't. This world has been nothing but hostile to him so far, after all. He'll have to play this one by ear. "Dean, this is all in your mind. You are in control of this world. You need to take back the reins and force this demon into submission—"

Alastair laughs, a harsh, throaty sound. "Kinky!" he says, sounding delighted. "And here I thought you angels were a stuck-up bunch of snots. We've got room for one more, sure we do. Want to play? Three's company too."

Castiel looks around desperately, searching for a weapon with which to defend himself. Alastair takes advantage of the gap and leaps forward, the knife slicing through the air with deadly intent. Castiel ducks under the blow and tries to will his wings invisible, but they stay stubbornly real. It is almost as if he is caught between worlds, much as he was back in the Everglades. But in this dreamworld, his wings manifest as solid, whereas Dean had only been able to see shadows of them after he touched Tara's shack in Florida.

Alastair grabs the edge of the feathers of his wings, and Castiel gives a sharp, involuntary gasp at the pain. "No," he forces out, knowing that it's just a waste of air but unable to stop. As Alastair tightens his fingers, Castiel grits his teeth and slams into the demon. Now for a very human trick – he pins him down and jabs his knee sharply into the nightmare's groin.

Alastair smiles at him, sharp and feral. "Do that again," he leers. "Moves like that, angel, I'd think that you were interested."

Like Dean must have been _interested_ , Castiel thinks grimly, hating the forty-year delay that kept him from Dean with a sudden, burning intensity. "Go back to Hell," he snaps instead, trying to slam Alastair's hand hard against the tile in an attempt to dislodge the knife. To his dismay, Alastair is far stronger than he lets on, and his fingers barely twitch. The demon's fingers curl around his, and Castiel gasps sharply as Alastair begins to bend them back, contorting the joints in a way human joints aren't supposed to move.

"Run, run, little angel, run to daddy," Alastair sing-songs as he gets to his feet, forcing Castiel down in turn. With a single brutal push, he sends Castiel sprawling onto the floor. The blows that rain onto his ribs in quick succession leave Castiel choking for breath against the pain. Alastair straddles him across the waist, leaning down to press a hand against Castiel's chest. Castiel grits his teeth as the knife in his free hand draws close, waving about in a faintly mocking dance. "Of course, you're already here, and you're not going to get away, are you? Hmm?"

"Dean," Cas says hoarsely. His wings twitch from their pinned position behind his back, beating helplessly in an attempt to break free. He can see the edges of Dean's still figure from above Alastair's shoulder, but his eyes are dead and flat in a ghastly pale face. " _Dean_!" he shouts.

The edge of the knife touches his cheek and Castiel sucks in a deep breath in anticipation of the pain. He keeps his eyes firmly on Dean's, willing Dean to look his way. He shivers and feels the first cut as a dull sensation more than anything else, but he knows that the pain will be coming soon. Alastair grins at him and shoves the knife deeper, and Castiel knows that he's bleeding now. He can feel his blood trickling down his neck, searing hot against the ice of the castle.

Castiel grits his teeth against the pain and tries again to shove Alastair off, but the nightmare is much stronger than he should be – or maybe it's because Castiel is weaker. Either way, it's a result of Dean's mind, and Castiel redoubles his efforts to reach the frozen man. "Dean," he pants, aware that Alastair is drawing the blade perilously close to slitting his throat. "You're not a murderer—"

Alastair grabs a handful of hair and slams his head back against the ice, and Castiel reels with disorientation. "Yes," Alastair says softly, "he is."

Castiel stares wide-eyed up at him, the words scattering from his mind. He imagines that he can see Dean begin to move, in which direction he doesn't know. Castiel can feel the blade bite deeply into his neck, too deep for him to survive this round, and the pain floods through him with shocking suddenness. "Dean," he chokes out, but it's too late. Now or never—

Castiel closes his eyes and pushes against the fabric of the dream as hard he can, forcing himself to ignore the agony spreading through him. Breathe – don't breathe – and then _push_ , snapping through the dream with everything he's got. He'll be fine in the real world, when he wakes, _if_ he wakes, and he'll be back for Dean, he swears. It feels like a coward's move, but there's nothing he can do if he wants to survive. Castiel reaches up blindly, trying to push Alastair away from him and shatter back into waking.

"Whoa! Cas, calm down, it's just me!"

Castiel's eyes fly open and he freezes at the sight of Sam standing before him with his hands spread wide in a placating gesture. "Dude, it's okay," Sam says. "You all right?"

Castiel stares at him dumbly for a moment before pressing a hand to his neck. No blood. The pain is vivid in his memory, but there's nothing to show that it was ever there. He lets his hand drop and looks around the room, feeling numb. Peeling wallpaper, faint smell of mold in the air. Motel room, then. Not a surprise unless you count the overwhelming surprise that he survived.

His eyes fall on Dean. Dean is eerily still on the bed – Sam has pulled the blanket up over him to give the illusion that he's just sleeping, but his face is blank. Not unlike his dream counterpart, if Castiel is going to be honest. There's a bag connected to a vein in his arm.

"Cas?"

Castiel doesn't look away from Dean's unconscious form. He can hear Sam heave a soft, shaky sigh. "How's…uh. How'd it go?"

Castiel eases himself onto the bed, careful not to jostle the IV bag, and lays a hand on Dean's. It feels cold, like Dean's close to dying already. "It was…frozen," he says finally. After a moment, he adds, "I saw Alastair."

He doesn't have to turn around to see the tension that jolts through Sam's frame. "What?" Sam says, and for a moment his voice is darker, containing undertones of some sort of feral rage. "A Hell dream then?"

"Evidently," Castiel says tiredly. "Dean's trapped in some sort of nightmare, one of his own making. He's…" he shakes his head as he tries to piece together what his senses told him about Dean, about the strange emptiness. "He's not complete, Sam. Something's missing."

"Wait. Are you saying that he's lost part of his mind?" Sam says, looking alarmed.

"Not lost. Hiding. It's all still there, just fragmented somehow."

"What do you mean, fragmented?" Sam asks. "Like, he's been broken? That's…" he swallows, and then says quietly, "I wish I could say I was surprised."

Castiel turns to look at him. "Memories that are hardly new to you, as well."

"Yeah, well, I never had to torture anyone," Sam says with a tired laugh. "Not that I didn't have to face my own demons down there…" he trails off. "Anyway." Sam coughs and clears his throat, obviously not wanting to dredge up his memories of the Cage. Then: "So what happened?"

"Alastair tried to kill me," Castiel says, unconsciously reaching up to rub his throat again. "I'm weakened, that's true, but Alastair was much stronger than he should've been. What that means, I don't…I don't know." He stares listlessly for a moment before his eyes focus on the IV bag connected to Dean's arm. "How long has it been?"

"Um." Sam sits down next to Castiel on the bed, and out of the corner of his eyes, Castiel can see him twist his hands uneasily. "Three days."

Castiel gets the unspoken feeling that Sam has been counting down the days, minutes, even seconds until his return. "Any news?"

"Not really," Sam says. "The most exciting bit you missed was me posing as a doctor to sneak some IV bags from a hospital. Bobby's been doing much of the researching while I watch over Dean. Mira's helping too. They're both contacting everyone they know to see if anyone has heard of anything like this."

"That is good," Castiel murmurs, sudden exhaustion pressing down all around him. Technically, he hasn't really been corporeal these three days, but his limbs suddenly feel rubbery, refusing to obey his commands. "It didn't feel like three days for me," he says, and it's an effort to get the words to come out properly.

"You okay?" Sam asks awkwardly. "You look ready to fall over." Castiel waves a hand in dismissal of the question; he's okay, he _has_ to be okay. Sam fidgets for a moment as Castiel doesn't answer, and then he says, "What about Dean? Is he okay?"

"Define okay," Castiel says wearily.

"Do you think you can bring him back?"

Castiel turns his head with an effort to look at Sam. "I don't know," he answers truthfully, and the answer feels like a stab through his heart. He's never had any use for the metaphor in all the millennia of his existence, but just recently he's starting to learn. People expend so much time and energy to their hearts – love, broken love, hopes for love, lost love…

He forces himself to shake some of the stupor away. "I need to go back," he says, more for Sam's benefit than anything else. "I don't know how the dream will continue to change. Dean…"

"He's always been a bit of a martyr?" Sam says dryly.

"It must be a Winchester thing," Cas says.

"And it's rubbing off on you, evidently," Sam says, and Castiel feels Sam place a hand against his shoulder. "Seriously, you look terrible. You're running low on angel-juice, Castiel. Take a break."

"The dream's still there," Castiel says, more to himself than to Sam. Sam pats Castiel's shoulders awkwardly, and Castiel lets out a slow, shuddering breath. He's so tired. "I should…"

"You said Alastair kicked your ass, right?" Sam says. "And that was you when you were fresh. You really think you can take him on if you're tired?"

"I wouldn't have to rest if I were still an angel," Castiel mutters.

There's an exasperated sigh from next to him. "And the Apocalypse wouldn't have started if I hadn't been stupid," Sam says. "We've all got regrets that we've got to cope with."

Castiel turns his head to look at Sam with a small frown. "This is your brother," he says slowly. "I would've thought that you'd be desperate."

Sam grimaces. "It's been three days," he says, his words slow and halting. "I just…" he sighs. "I passed the desperate stage about two hours in, and since then it was mostly just worry and…" Sam's mouth pulls briefly to one side, and then he sighs. "Look, if you're exhausted, you're not going to be much help to anyone. Dean's been in a shitty situation for a while, and I don't really think it's going to change that much if you rest for a couple of hours." He looks sideways at Castiel. "It's self-interest, too. Both of you collapsing is a bad idea."

Castiel closes his eyes as Sam's words hit him. Sam's worried about him. For some reason, the idea still surprises Castiel. That Sam cares about him, maybe has even truly forgiven him. He's been aware of it for a while, but at the same time, there's a difference between knowing and _knowing_ something. Cas exhales slowly, shakily, and gives a short nod. "Thank you," he says quietly.

Sam squeezes his shoulder and lets go of him. "You'll be fine," he says. "We all will."

It sounds like a promise, one that Castiel desperately wants to believe is true.

  


_0\. Dean_

  


He can feel it, very softly, the touches feather-light against the trembling surface of his heart. It seems that he's always been like this, trapped under the suffocating weight of air, Alastair's eyes watching him intently. He knows that he's not supposed to be here. He knows that the children weren't always there. He knows that there's someone out there, that something's changed, that something _must_ change…

But _what_?

Dean moans and turns his head, fighting to get another breath of air into his lungs. It feels like he's breathing cement, like his lungs aren't working properly, or maybe his lungs have been ripped out of his body just like his heart. "Dad," he forces out with his next breath of air, and it takes much more effort than it should. "Please…"

It doesn't matter what he says or how he pleads. He can see Alastair's eyes hovering just above him, dark and black and unrelenting. Dean tries to close his eyes, but a clench of fingers around his heart warns him against it. This is where he belongs, it says. This is what he _deserves_.

Blue, he thinks faintly. Once there was blue…

Pain jolts through him, and Dean chokes out a half-scream, half-cry, his lungs unable to produce more than that. Alastair doesn't need to say it. Dean knows his duty; after all, hasn't he spent an eternity being trained in what's right? Disobedient son, failure of a brother, worthless scum, filthy little _slut_ —

Alastair's touch on his shoulder is both blessing and curse. Dean presses his cheek up against Alastair's arm, desperately seeking something solid to ground him. Alastair's nails dig into his shoulder, but Dean doesn't feel it as his heart seizes with pain. He arches his back and presses harder against Alastair, unable to summon up the strength to even beg.

"Yours," he sobs. "Please, please, please—"

It won't do any good.

  


_2\. Castiel_

  


Sam is asleep when Castiel wakes up. Sam's position on the floor looks anything but comfortable, and Castiel studies the lines around his friend's eyes for a moment. They shouldn't have to deal with this. He wonders briefly what Sam's dreams are like now, but he pushes the thought away. One Hell dream at a time. It's not as if his memory is particularly pristine, either, and for a moment he feels the shadow of Zachariah's wings over him. Castiel looks around despite himself, and he takes a deep breath once he realizes what he's done. Careful. You're not in the dream yet, and already you're going crazy…

He takes the pen and tablet from the bedside table to leave a note for Sam. He stares blankly at the paper for a moment, trying to figure what to say: _gone into Dean's head, be right back_. Or he could write, _don't worry, we'll be fine_. Or if he was going to be truthful, then, _have entered Dean's memory. Chances of success limited. Be prepared for the worst. Say goodbye to Claire for me_.

_Depressing much, dude?_ Dean's voice says playfully in his head. Castiel grits his teeth and shakes his head hard. He stares down at where his pen has made a depression into the paper and finally writes two words: _trying again_. Sam will understand the rest. He sets down the pen and stands up before slowly moving over to the bed where Dean lies. _Dreaming_.

Not a day goes by that Castiel doesn't wish to remember his own nightmares. He knows that if he could remember them, understand them, then maybe so much of what has been happening to them since the souls would be revealed. _Dreams_. They have always been important to their lives. Even when buried down beneath the monster souls, Castiel first reached out to Dean through a dream. Dreams have meaning, Castiel once told Dean; they reveal things that are often hidden from the conscious mind. More than anything, dreams are worlds unto themselves. Worlds within worlds. Pathways.

It is taking Castiel much more effort than it really should to step forward again into the dreamworld, and for a moment he stays stubbornly corporeal, unable to dreamwalk. He takes a deep breath, forcing himself to remain calm. He can do this. He _must_ do this. Dean's mind is intimately familiar to his own, and Castiel reaches out for him, seeking out the silent mind, following the traces of their connection that have brought them back to each other time and time again.

_Let me in. Please_. He closes his eyes and steps forward, fully prepared to bump into the bed.

There's a moment of brief disorientation as he settles onto a smooth, hard surface as opposed to carpet. Castiel opens his eyes and breathes in the suddenly cold air, his wings fanning out behind him as he does so. They're visible again, he notices, and it seems that there's nothing he can do to change that particular fact. He tucks them as close to his body as he can and takes a look around.

He stands in a large, circular room. There's an ornate four-poster bed taking up much of one side, but it looks more like a prison than any real comfort. Heavy curtains fall over all four sides, concealing whoever or whatever lies within. Castiel has no control over weapons here in the dream, and he feels incredibly vulnerable knowing that at any moment, Alastair could spring out baying for his blood. He edges around, stretching out all his senses to examine the bed.

There's a clink under his foot. Castiel tenses and looks down quickly, on the alert for some sort of trap. Something metallic glints from under his boot, and he frowns slightly at seeing the angel blade there. It's a dream version of his blade that's just as solid as the real one. And like the real one, it's _made_ for him – here, in the depths of Dean's mind, despite whatever demons Dean has conjured up from his memory.

The thought both chills and reassures Castiel as he leans down and picks up the sword. It's a familiar weight in his hand; comforting, almost like coming home. It's a message from Dean: _help me_.

"Dean?" Castiel breathes quietly into the darkness. There's no answer, but then again, he never really expected there to be any. He adjusts his grip on the sword and comes close to the four-poster bed. For a moment, he debates exploring the rest of the dream first, but he arrived here for a reason. There's something hidden here.

Well, no sense in waiting, he thinks grimly, and he throws the curtain aside in one swift motion.

There's just barely enough light reflected off the ice outside that Castiel can see a figure lying on the bed. His heart leaps at the sight, and he has to force himself to take his eyes off the figure long enough to scan for other intruders. Once he's ascertained that the rest of the room is empty, his gaze returns to the figure as if drawn there by a magnetic force. He doesn't need to see the features to know that it's Dean; he knows those shadows better than his own. "Dean?" he says again, hearing the hoarseness of his own voice.

Dean doesn't respond. As Castiel edges closer, he's not sure if Dean is even _breathing_ or not, and the preternatural stillness shakes him down to the bone. Logically, he knows that Dean can't be dead, because this dream would not exist if he were dead. At the same time, Castiel curses himself for resting earlier when Dean might have been dropping even deeper into whatever hell this is to a point where _Castiel can't pull him out_. "Dean," he says again, trying hard to keep himself calm and measured, to draw upon the limitless wellspring of angelic calm that he once had.

Dean's skin radiates cold. Castiel eases himself onto the bed next to him and places his free hand lightly around Dean's cheek, his heart pounding hard in his chest. Don't be dead, he pleads softly, knowing that Dean _can't_ be dead, but at the same time, if only he hadn't stopped, if only he'd returned straight into the dream – he shoves those thoughts away. Dean's skin is smooth under his hand and feels almost unreal, more like ice than flesh. Castiel passes his hand over Dean's nose and mouth, searching for any sign of life. His fingers are too numb to feel anything, and he tells himself that that's the only reason why he feels nothing.

He places the sword on the bed, forcing his fingers to unclench from the hilt. He wraps both his arms around Dean and pulls him close, pulling the coverlet up around them both. _Cold_ doesn't even begin to describe it. Is Dean even breathing? Castiel closes his eyes and rests his chin against Dean's hair, ignoring the chill that seeps into him. His wings fan out around them in a protective cocoon, and for a moment, he can pretend that they're not trapped in this nightmare.

A soft moan breaks the silence. Castiel tightens his arms around Dean, feeling adrenaline kick into his system at the sound. Dean is stirring, his eyelids fluttering ever so slightly. And maybe it's just wishful thinking on Castiel's part, but he doesn't look quite so wan anymore. Castiel reaches a hand out to touch him and pulls back, studying Dean intently. _Is_ he imagining the faint color in Dean's cheeks?

"Hello," Castiel says softly.

Dean opens his eyes, and Castiel almost chokes with relief as he sees them. They're green, warmly human amid the stark ice, and Castiel has to stop and take a deep breath as a flood of – _something_ – fills him, strong and overwhelming and painful. He knew love as an angel; the sort of distant, observing love that meant nothing at all. He has known love with Dean; human love that somehow manages to cut and soothe all at the same time. This feels like the latter, but at the same time he wants to wrap Dean up and keep him safe and – _is this the way it's supposed to be?_ he wonders, still dazed at the sheer intensity of it.

Dean's eyes focus on him, and Castiel pulls in a shaky breath, trying to get himself under control. He can't stop the small smile pushing at the corners of his mouth, though, and he doesn't particularly want to. There are a hundred thousand important questions he wants to ask, but the most useless, instinctual one shoves its way past his lips. "Are you all right?" he asks, and then kicks himself for it. Of course Dean's not all right. There's nothing all right about this nightmare, except for the fact that now Castiel is here, and he can do his damnedest to _make_ it right.

Dean doesn't respond, and for a moment Castiel wonders if the dream has somehow conjured a mannequin of some sort, which really wouldn't be that strange. He's already seen Alastair, and a double would hardly be the strangest thing he's ever met in a dream. He watches as Dean's eyes open and close languorously, watches his chest move up and down. He's concentrating hard enough on Dean's breathing that he jumps a little when he hears Dean's voice, weak and raspy: "I know you."

Castiel's heart leaps in his chest. "Yes," he says. "Do you know my name? Do you know who I am?"

Dean shakes his head. "You were here. Before." He shifts a little in Castiel's hold, but he makes no move to sit up on his own. "Where's Dad?"

"Dad?" Castiel repeats slowly, confused. Does Dean mean John Winchester? It seems unlikely that he would refer to Castiel's own _Dad_ , considering that Dean has never been at peace with the idea of Castiel's father. "He died a long time ago, Dean."

"No," Dean murmurs, his eyes darting around the room. "He was here," he says, and his eyes lock onto Castiel's, dark and desperate. "He was – he's supposed to be here," he says, and the fear in his eyes is contagious. "I can't keep them safe."

"Keep who safe?" Castiel says, bewildered. "Are you talking about Sam? He's fine, Dean. He managed to burn the spirit, and he's waiting for you back in the real world."

"Sam?" Dean asks, latching onto the name.

"Your brother," Castiel says carefully. He thinks for a moment, wondering how best to push the memory across. If he's in Dean's mind, and Dean's mind controls this world…he closes his eyes for a moment, trying to form the best image that he can of Sam Winchester. Long, floppy brown hair, a large frame, a concentrated frown as he works on their latest case. Squeezing his hand around Dean's wrist, Castiel focuses on the image as hard as he can, trying to translate it into a material object. He opens his eyes to see Dean looking at him, eyes wide and mouth slightly parted. "Dean?" Castiel says, concerned.

"Dad's going to be so angry," Dean says weakly. "Sam was the first, wasn't he?"

"The first?" Castiel asks.

"Of the children." Dean wraps his arms around himself, and Castiel draws his wings tighter around him, hating to see Dean so vulnerable. He's _Dean_ ; he's not supposed to be so – so quiet, so pale. "I don't remember. Dad doesn't like it."

"Who's Dad?" Castiel asks carefully, a suspicion beginning to crawl up his spine. "Are you talking about Alastair, Dean?" When silence answers his query, Castiel finds his hand moving to the angel knife, suspicion creeping in his veins. He looks around, but the drapes obscure most of the view. He moves to pull away the drapes, but as Dean clings onto him, Castiel stops. "Dean?"

Dean shakes his head. "He's not here," he says, his eyes darting around. "He's just—" he shakes his head. "He's _always_ here."

"How long has he been here?" Castiel asks.

Dean doesn't answer for a moment. When he finally speaks, he sounds impossibly young, and Castiel remembers that Dean _is_ young, so very young, when compared to the life of an angel. If, of course, you can deign to call the existence of an angel as _life_. "Make it stop," Dean says, soft and pleading.

"Make what stop?" Castiel asks, his heart accelerating as adrenaline fills his veins. He looks at Dean, _really_ looks, pouring every bit of angelic strength he has left into touching Dean's soul. He knows it much better than he knows any other, having retrieved it from the pits of Hell and dragged it kicking and screaming back to the World. Castiel's touches his mark on Dean's shoulder, the physical manifestation of where his grace touched Dean's soul. As Dean looks at him in wordless despair, Castiel promises, "I will." It's rash, promising when he doesn't really know what he's going to have to give, but he's done so much more.

Dean still doesn't say anything. Castiel places the knife back on the bed and presses his hands against Dean's face, resting his forehead against Dean's. He wants badly to kiss him, but this isn't Dean or a mutual dream they're sharing. Dean's incomplete, scared out of his mind, and some part of him is trapped away by the demon nightmare. "Where are you?" Castiel breathes.

There's a fragile hush in the air. Then—"Hell," Dean whispers back. "Help me, Cas."

Castiel jolts backwards, the sound of his name running through him like an electric shock. Dean knows him! That's a good sign if he's ever heard one, a sign that perhaps _his_ Dean is fighting his way out from whatever Alastair has done to him, bringing to life what led Dean to resist thirty years in Hell. "How?" Castiel asks urgently, determined to eke what he can out of the dreamworld before Dean fades into it again. "Tell me and I'll do it." And it's true, he always has.

Dean blinks, and for a horrible moment Castiel fears that he has lost him again. "Alastair," Dean says, and then he folds up against Castiel, shaking. Castiel wraps his arms around Dean, trying hard to warm the chilled skin up. "You're a…aren't you supposed to be good?" Dean asks, seemingly out of nowhere.

Castiel pauses, trying to work out the question. There's just enough of the old Dean in there to hint that he's fighting the hold of the dream, but at the same time, he's not sure what Dean's trying to aim at. "I'm an angel," he says cautiously. "I've tried to do the right thing…" he hesitates and then says, "I've had my doubts."

Dean huffs and presses his face against Castiel's shoulder. "Keep talking," he says. "What happened?"

Castiel pauses, trying to figure out how best to phrase the answer. "You were cursed," he says slowly. "We were hunting a ghost, and the spirit proved to be a vengeful one. Although we managed to burn the bones, it cursed you before it died. This is a nightmare dreamworld, Dean." Castiel tilts his head, wondering if he should mention that the nightmares have always been there. Perhaps not this vivid, but there.

He looks at Dean and decides not to mention it. Dean stares at him for a moment, and Castiel gets the feeling that Dean's not absorbing the words in the least. He brushes a thumb along Dean's face and tries to fight down the growing sense of dismay. "It's a nightmare," he repeats. "It's not real, Dean, none of it is."

Dean takes a deep breath and wets his lips. Castiel waits a moment for him to speak. When he finally does, his voice is barely louder than a whisper, almost as if it's being ripped from him. "I made a deal," Dean says slowly, haltingly. "That's why I'm here."

"The deal was a grossly unfair one," Cas says gently. "It was part of a scheme to start the—"

"No," Dean interrupts, and there's a sudden hard strength in his voice. "I did it because it's what I'm supposed to do. It's my job."

Castiel closes his eyes. "You sold your soul to save Sam because you love him," he says softly. "You did it out of selflessness, and the combined forces of Heaven and Hell sought to make you suffer because they saw you as a pawn. It wasn't your fault. None of it was."

"Yes it was," Dean says fiercely. His fingers clamp around Castiel's, cold and unyielding. "That's what he wanted me to do. That's what Dad always wanted."

"Alastair's a demon and a liar—"

"No!" Dean snaps, and there's a sudden anger in his voice. " _He_ wanted me to do. You're the same, aren't you? You'd do anything for him."

Castiel winces a little at the unspoken reprimand, but he forces himself to push his own misgivings aside to regard Dean with a new eye. Part of it, he supposes, can be chalked up to the fluid nature of dreams, but Dean's changing with alarming quickness, his prior frozen demeanor shattering to give way to something much more…angry. "I followed my Father," Castiel says cautiously. "For a long time, I merely watched and observed. As an angel, I felt that was my duty to the exclusion of all else." He swallows hard and then says quietly, "He's gone and I am Fallen. One way or another, it doesn't matter anymore."

Dean hunches over, breathing hard. "But you would still be there, wouldn't you? Doing your _duty_ ," he spits out, the word turning into something harsh and ugly in his mouth. "That's what I had. That's _all_ I had. And I'm doing it," he says, looking up at Castiel. "What else is there?"

Castiel has asked himself that question more than enough times, and while he thinks that he's found the answer, it's one that he can't easily frame into words. "There's life," he says softly, his mind racing. How exactly does one go about answering a question like that?

"It's pain in one hand and joy in the other, and each is made sharper by the other," he continues. "Your life hasn't been the easiest, Dean, you and your brother have undergone ordeals no one should have to go through." Castiel strokes his thumb across the back of Dean's hand. "But you've saved so many lives, Dean, and brought meaning to many others. It's been worthwhile; you've _accomplished_ things."

Dean stares at him. "This isn't right," he breathes, and Castiel wants to laugh at the sheer absurdity of it all. "It's not supposed to happen this way."

"Happen what way?" Castiel asks carefully, feeling a tingle run up his spine. "You've done the right thing."

"Have I?" Dean chokes out. "Dad's never been happy with me. He wanted to keep me quiet. Isn't that what they want to do?"

Castiel considers the question a little ruefully. He's not had much experience with fathers, admittedly, considering that his own Father was…well. "Bobby Singer never wanted anything less than the best for you," he says.

Dean looks up at him, confusion showing through those painfully human eyes. Castiel shakes his head. "You'll remember once you wake up."

"There is no waking up," Dean whispers. "He'll always find me."

"No, he won't," Castiel says firmly, and the flare of possessiveness is a little surprising, but it feels more right than anything else has ever since he set foot into this icy world. He curls an arm around Dean, draping his wings around him both. "We'll find you."

Dean looks at him with a small frown. "What?"

It takes a moment for Castiel to work out what he's just said. When the meaning finally dawns, he pushes away from Dean a little bit, scrutinizing him carefully. Of course, he thinks. He'd noticed it earlier, but studying Dean with a new eye puts it into a special prominence. Dean's hollow in a way that piques what angelic senses Castiel has left, and it's slowly becoming easier to define as more time goes by. "You're missing," Castiel says slowly, trying to work it out. "Or part of you is."

Dean looks at him, his eyes wide. "Don't say it," he advises, his voice a bare whisper. "It's his now."

"Who?" Castiel asks, perhaps more sharply than warranted. "Alastair doesn't own you."

"I've always been owned," Dean says through clenched teeth, and there's a sudden bitterness in his voice. "I'm – I'm a good son, a, a _weapon_ —"

"You belong to yourself—" Castiel tries.

"What would you know about it?" Dean snaps, almost snarls. "You've always followed your Father. You wanted to be just like him, didn't you? That's why you let the souls out." Dean's not looking at Castiel anymore but off into some middle distance, and Castiel's heart jumps as he realizes that Dean's eyes are icing over, the flush from his cheeks fading. He tightens his hold on Dean, trying to will back the tide, as Dean storms on. "What makes you any better than me?"

"I'm not!" Castiel protests, frustrated. "I didn't—" He inhales sharply. "I would still be an obedient soldier if I hadn't been the one who pulled you out." He closes his eyes. "But I've changed, Dean. I'm not my Father's hammer anymore, Dean, and that's because of you."

Dean goes rigid in Castiel's arms. "I'm not—" he begins weakly. "I'm not John's hammer," he says as if trying the words out, and his voice is shaking. "I'm not his weapon – I'm not—"

Castiel opens his eyes and moves his hands up to Dean's shoulders and squeezes hard, forcing Dean to face him. "You sacrificed yourself to save Sam because you love him," he says, soft but relentless. "Not out of duty. Duty is what I performed when I saved you initially from the Pit, but it's become much, much more since then. Don't you dare cheapen it by turning it into an obligation."

"Alastair made me," Dean says, his eyes darting back and forth and refusing to meet Castiel's expression.

" _Alastair does not own you_ ," Castiel says tightly. "If you belong to me, to Sam, to Bobby, to any of us, it's because you own a part of us in return." He watches Dean's face carefully, willing the ice to melt. "Even if he were your father, which he isn't, Alastair has no right to what you're not willing to give. He certainly has no say in what you will be. Walk away from him if you want to. Walk away and come back to us." _Come back to me_ , he pleads silently, hoping that the dreamscape can capture it.

Dean's mouth is hanging slightly open. He doesn't say anything, but Castiel waits, meeting Dean's eyes with a steady, relentless gaze. Finally, Dean says in a cracked voice, "I can't."

Frustration, sharp and painful, slices through Castiel, and for a moment loathing overwhelms him: at the demons, for keeping Dean, at the angels, for letting him stay there, at himself, for failing. He clenches his teeth together to keep the rage in, but he can't stop the angry "why _not_?" from slipping past.

"Because he has my heart," Dean says quietly.

Castiel feels his own heart stop for a moment as he processes the statement. It's a metaphor, he thinks dismally, one of those human things that's code for something that – well, that Castiel has always thought of as a private, endearing declaration. "It's not real," Castiel says softly, trying to think of how to counter this new turn.

Dean shakes his head. "It's locked away," he says, quietly enough that Castiel has to strain to hear him. "It hurts. When he touches it."

It takes Castiel a moment to understand the words, but at the same time, they don't seem to make any sense. "What?" he says blankly. "He touches it?"

Dean nods, a tiny, hesitant movement.

His heart. Alastair _touches_ his heart, which…while it could be another metaphor, the context doesn't seem to quite fit. Think, Cas, he berates himself, trying to fit the pieces together. Dean is fragmented, lost within this dreamworld. Alastair owns him, you said so yourself. Alastair owns his _heart_ …

The last piece clicks into place. Impulsively, Castiel brings up his free hand to brush across Dean's cheek. It's still cold to the touch, but he imagines that he can see the barest hints of color coming back into Dean's face. "Where does Alastair keep your heart?" he asks.

Dean's eyes flash up to meet his briefly. "It's locked."

"We can unlock whatever it's hidden in," Castiel promises. It's a bit rash to promise this blindly, but when it comes to Dean, there don't seem to be many lines he can't cross. "Where is it?"

There's a moment of frozen silence around them as the dreamworld seems to hold its breath. Castiel focuses on Dean's face, his eyes, the painful absence of the familiar lines that make Dean alive, hoping against hope that what he's said is enough—

—they're in the room where he first fought Alastair. They've _always_ been in that room.

Castiel stands up slowly, pulling Dean up with him. Dean is tense against his side, and Castiel squeezes his arm as reassuringly as he can. "It's all right," he says softly even as his eyes flick around the room. It's the same as it was before, eerily empty except for the tapestries on the walls. Their designs are hidden from view by the frost. "Where is it?"

"Where is what?" Alastair's voice says from behind him, and Castiel knows that whatever reprieve the bedroom offered him and Dean is over.

Sword, he thinks distantly.

He knows it will come to him, and it does: the blade jumps into his hand, warm and familiar. Pushing Dean behind him with his free hand, Castiel tightens his fingers around the hilt and turns around.

"Alastair," he says softly, but he pushes his words towards Dean, urging him to understand. "He's only a part of your mind, Dean."

He's said the words before, but this time, he thinks, Dean will be willing to listen.

  


_3\. Dean_

The air claws at his throat, and for a moment it's all he can do to stay upright. He can't see his father's expression clearly from here, but he knows that Alastair is anything but pleased. The thought slices through him with painful clarity, and Dean has to fight the sudden urge to slam himself into the man in front of him, throw him off guard. He clenches his fists, trying to hold onto the tenuous memories of Cas, of long car rides, of Sam's floppy hair and puppy dog eyes, of being together, of loving and living.

He flinches at the sudden clash of steel on steel, the sound threatening to force the memories from his mind. Focus, he whispers to himself, trying hard to hold on. _Alastair does not own you_ , Cas had said, but these words are a flimsy reassurance when he can see his father now, _his maker_ , the man's face twisted into a vicious leer as he rakes his sword across Castiel's wings. For a horrible moment Alastair stares directly at him, his face promising vengeance. Dean closes his eyes at the sudden feeling of drowning that threatens to swamp him, trying to block the image out. He backs up a few hesitant steps before his limbs simply give out on him, dropping him to the floor.

"You're in control here," he can hear Castiel say, his words punctuated by gasps as he grapples with Alastair. "This is your dream, and you need to – to—" Castiel breaks off with a cry, hoarse and pained.

Dean curls in tighter, struggling to keep himself together. This isn't the first time Cas has been in pain, he knows. He's died before, more often than not for Dean himself, and he'd do more than that, he's sure. _We can unlock it_ , he had rashly promised, but Dean knows that the chest opens only to Alastair's touch. And why would he defy Alastair? His father has never been anything less than – well – Dean's never gotten less than what he's _deserved_ —

He opens his eyes as a thud hits the ground just in front of him. Castiel is pinned flat on the ground like some sort of grotesque sacrificial offering, his wings beating helplessly for purchase on the icy surface. Alastair looks directly at Dean, his teeth bared. "What do you think?" he says in a low, guttural voice. "Shall we make him ours?" He smiles, showing teeth. "You know you want him."

Castiel's scream lances through Dean as Alastair drives the knives through his wings, pinning him flat to the ice. Dean flinches and scrabbles back a few panicked steps, freezing as Alastair stands up, looming over him. "Dean," Castiel whispers, and Dean struggles to focus on the angel's familiar guttural voice and not on the primal terror clawing its way up his stomach. "You can stop this," Castiel says, in short, choking gasps. "You're not irredeemable—"

He breaks off into a high, thin cry as Alastair stomps heavily on his wings, wings that Dean knows are strong, beautiful, but also devastatingly easy to destroy. "He sings like a little bird, doesn't he?" Alastair says softly as he casually grinds his foot into the broken, bloody joints. "He flew away last time, but this time the little bird's wings are clipped, and he'll never leave us again. You'd like that, wouldn't you?"

_No_ , Dean wants to say. _Not like this_. The words are locked in his throat, though, and all that comes out of his mouth is a strained whimper. He watches as Castiel shakes his head back and forth, his eyes slowly unfocusing even as they try to hold Dean's gaze. Cas could still leave, Dean thinks, he could escape, free himself, but why won't he, why can't he?

Dean can feel Alastair's shadow on him like a physical presence, smothering and all-encompassing. Alastair's fingers touch his chin and lift it up, a burning hot presence on frozen skin. "And then when I'm done with him," Alastair breathes, "I'll start on you. You've been very bad lately, Dean." The fingers tighten, and Dean wants desperately to pull away, but his joints are locked into place. "But you can be good again for me, can't you?"

_Yes_. The word rises to Dean's mouth, familiar and easy. Say yes, it's the only thing you're good for. Obey your father, obey the rules, take care of your brother, suffer in Hell, serve in Hell, do what you're told, because _you'll never be any better than this_. The familiar litany runs through his head, words that Alastair has told him over and over, words that he has held sacred for so long. They must be true, because what else is there? He isn't worthy of anything else. He's worthless.

He stares numbly as blood pools around his hands and feet, shockingly bright and warm against his skin. Castiel's eyes struggle to focus on his, his mouth shaped as if to deliver the words that Dean can't. _I won't. I'm not worthless. I'm more than what you made me_. Nothing comes out, and Dean realizes with shocking clarity that dream or not, Cas is going to die.

"No," Dean whispers.

Alastair's fingers tighten hard enough to send jolts of pain through Dean's shoulder. "What did you say?"

No. He'd said _no_.

Dean reaches up a hand to his mouth as if he can recapture the word, feel it, taste it. He'd said no, and he _meant_ it. "No," he whispers again, trying the word on for size. He can taste it, lying heavy on his tongue before breaking free. "This is _me_. This is _mine_."

_Is it?_ he thinks, and hears Alastair say the same thing a bare second later. Dean closes his eyes, riding out the initial primal wave of terror at Alastair's voice. It's terrifying, yet it's also strangely liberating to hear. _It's a nightmare_ , Cas had said, and maybe, just maybe, Dean can let himself believe that. "Get out," Dean says through clenched teeth, and the words break free in sharp, triumphant bursts. "You don't get to haunt me. Get out of my head."

Alastair's face twists. "Defiant," he says, his voice laden with scorn.

"No," Dean says sharply. "I said _no_!"

Alastair's eyes narrow. Between one moment and the next, the chest is in his hands; the chest has always been in his hands, and Dean's eyes leap to it instantly. "Have we been getting ideas, Dean? I'm surprised, but I suppose we'll just have to…" His hand clenches on the lid of the chest. "Burn it out of you."

Dean forces himself not to flinch, locking his muscles in place. He doesn't know if he's simply imagining it, but he can feel his heart seize in the chest, remembers the pain of Alastair's fingers searing the surface, and it takes all he can to cling onto his defiance. As Alastair swings the lid open, Dean closes his eyes, flinching as he can feel the first touch of fingers on his heart, searing, burning, drowning—

— _loving_.

"It's not yours," Castiel says quietly. "Not anymore."

Dean's eyes snap open at the sound of his voice. Castiel stands before him, hale and whole, wings spread around Dean's shoulders. Dean stares up at him, memory striking him hard and clear: this isn't the first time Castiel has stood between him and Alastair, is it? He remembers those wings: the shadows they made on Earth, the light they were in Hell. He shakes his head, storing away that last memory for later, and focuses on his heart. It looks deceptively small as it lies cradled between Castiel's cupped palms.

How, he wonders numbly. It takes him a moment before he remembers the answer: _this is your dream. You are in control_.

"You can do this," Castiel whispers.

And now, Dean thinks, he just might be able to believe it.

The hilt of the sword is warm with the memory of Castiel's hand. Dean wraps his hand around it reverently and takes a deep breath. He's not really a sword person, but it seems right for what he's about to do. He stands up slowly and faces Alastair, the last of the fear ebbing away to be replaced by the calm that comes with absolute serenity. Alastair's expression is positively livid as Dean takes a step towards him, but there's fear in those eyes, too. "You think you can survive without me?" Alastair says coldly.

I _know_ I can, Dean says voicelessly into the fabric of the dream, and he brings the sword down.

  


_4\. Castiel_

Castiel closes his eyes as Alastair dissolves, the chest crashing to the floor. He's not quite sure what to expect – triumph, perhaps, but all that comes is an overwhelming weariness, and above all, relief. He can't know for sure if this is a permanent victory, but he can speculate and above all, hope. For now, at least, Alastair is gone.

"Hey."

Castiel opens his eyes to see Dean approaching him on unsteady feet. He looks down at the heart – _Dean's_ heart, fragile and beautiful and brilliantly alive, the skin of it pulsating strongly as it beats in his hands. "It's yours," Castiel says softly, dredging the words up through great effort. "You've won."

Dean kneels down before him, and Castiel takes the opportunity to study him. He's alive, Castiel thinks, letting relief bleed into him slowly. Dean's eyes are green, not crystal, his skin no longer deathly white, but the darkened tan of a hunter. He's safe, or as safe as they can be before life inevitably comes for them once more.

  


Castiel kneels down in front of Dean, and with a a deep inhale he steadies himself, gains control. He pushes his wings back until he feels them folding away, moving from this world. He turns his eyes to Dean and waits. Dean reaches out and Castiel offers the heart to him, but Dean just cups roughened palms around his, holding on tight. "Cas," Dean begins.

Castiel shakes his head slightly. Words aren't enough, not here in the heart of the dreamworld, not with Dean's heart literally cradled in his palms. Dean's eyes meet his in a moment of perfect understanding, and for the first time since this all began, the dread and panic and terror are gone.

_Castiel has Dean's heart_.

"The spirit really did a number on me, didn't it?" Dean says softly, and his voice is wonderfully human. Castiel fights the urge to sag to the ground as the strength threatens to leave his muscles, and it's only Dean's hands on his that keep him upright. "I guess it was kind of unavoidable."

Castiel shakes his head. "Perhaps," he allows, "but better now than never. We've neither of us been healthy about our problems."

Dean's mouth twitches in a rueful gesture. "I don't do the whole sharing and caring bit very well," he admits. "It's just." He pauses and then sighs. "It's weird."

"That's the nature of dreams," Castiel tells him. There's silence for a moment, and then Castiel says quietly, "Do you think it will last?"

Dean doesn't ask what _it_ Castiel is referring to. Castiel studies his face, looking for uncertainty – after all, he'll admit that Dean's never been very in touch with his feelings, and asking if he's banished Alastair for good is a tricky question to answer for even the sanest man. "I don't know," Dean says at last. "I can hope so." He gives Castiel a small smile.

If it won't, Castiel thinks, I'll be here. I'll always be here. He looks up at Dean as Dean tightens his hands around Castiel's, their hearts skipping a beat in tandem.

"Come on," Dean says, not letting go. "Let's go home."

  


  



End file.
